The Violin's Tribute
by Mistress of the Dusk
Summary: John Watson is struggling to return to normal after The Fall. Reminders of his best friend are everywhere, but John refuses to forget. Will a night of solitude and a desperate curiosity hit just the right notes? Post-Reichenbach/Spoilers. Reviews welcome!


**Hello, fellow Sherlock fans. I'm relatively new to writing fanfiction, but don't worry - this isn't my first rodeo. Ever since I watched The Fall (which smashed my heart into a million pieces), ****I've been hoping to jot this down. It seems every time I write something new, it ends up completely different than I expected! Sorry in advance if pacing, dialogue, or characterization is strange - it takes awhile to get characters like these just right. But anyways, please enjoy and review! **

**- Mel  
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><p>The walk home was particularly icy that evening, causing both the residents and visitors of Baker Street much exasperation. The bitter cold was something John Watson had grown accustomed to, though his recurring limp made the odds of a transition from upright to flat on the ground well out of his favor. But even Watson had to admit, he secretly enjoyed that slight trepidation as he slid up the street to the door of the flat. That moment of thrill and fear and anxiety reminded the doctor of happier times, if you could call them that. Moments where time would stop, that instant between a decision to live another day, not even thinking about tomorrow. When tension was thick and stress was high, danger certainly imminent. And a long stare into those mystifyingly sharp eyes, as if they were waiting to see what John did next…<p>

"_Times with _him_, of course," _John thought to himself. Nearly dropping yet another bag of groceries as he struggled with the handle, he cursed silently as more people looked on with worried expressions on their faces. John sighed, jiggling the door free as he swept the frame clear of a growing amount of ice. _"Of course, always take pity on the local mental case."_ It had been almost a year since it happened. The day John Watson lost his flatmate, his best friend, and his literal partner in crime. Sherlock Holmes was lying dead for nearly a year, alone in that cemetery, and after all this time, it still hurt. He now had that normal life he always hated, remembering what he had said right before meeting Sherlock_. _The words haunted him every day.

"_Nothing ever happens to me." _

He scoffed as his own words were now being thrown back at him, ringing their truest and most depressing since he left the war in Afghanistan. His blog was now his greatest comfort in life, but also his primary form of torture. Floods of support still streamed in daily on his laptop, urging others to believe that Sherlock was indeed right and that Moriarty was a monstrous facade. Many wanted John to start a public campaign to prove it; the word was spreading everywhere. Graffiti was appearing in more noticeable places bearing the affirmation, and the smallest of signs were now making the biggest impact on the local news. But he wouldn't do it. _"I never doubted you, Sherlock. And I don't need a bloody campaign to make everyone else see the truth. What is important is that _I_ know. Besides, the publicity would have you turning in your grave…"_ Pushing the painful thoughts out of his head, he stumbled through the front door labeled _221B_ as the wind snapped it shut behind him seconds later. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was waiting for him.

"Oh goodness. John, let me help you with those, dear." Watson was wise enough to brush of the woman's natural compassion as he swept past her down the hall. He compiled a list in his head as he turned around to answer her _– "let's see, new dress complete with matching purse and hair. The nicest earrings out of her jewelry box and a hint of perfume. Not overwhelming, but to the point. There's the outline of some paper in her coat pocket, probably theatre tickets. Going to a show with_ _the retired tailor down the street. Not a womanizer, but he has been leaving flowers by the front door…"_ John smiled, putting up his one free hand in refusal.

"No thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I've got it. Please, I don't want you to be late for your show. I'll be fine."

The older woman paused, her hand outreached. She retracted it quickly as a soft grin emerged from her wrinkled features. "Now how did you know about that? Mr. Carter only asked me earlier this afternoon. With that coming out of your mouth, I could've sworn Sher-" Her voice trailed off as she surveyed the damage she had done. But without missing a beat, John continued where she'd left off.

"Yeah, a bit like Sherlock. He was always one for spoiling the fun. Now off you go, but be careful stepping out. Quite icy, I'm afraid." He hoped the smile that appeared on his face was genuine enough. He hated to make Mrs. Hudson upset - she was one of the only people John could still count on as a real friend.

"All right dear, see you later. I put the kettle on, just in case you needed a cuppa," Mrs. Hudson shouted as she turned to leave. Hearing the door settle with a loud _click_, the man turned away as he clambered into the flat. To his relief, Mrs. Hudson had also left a roaring fire as kettle started blaring in the background.

He chuckled as he thought of what his mind processed downstairs _"My God, Watson, your mind must really be going. You're starting to _THINK _like him now."_ Settling into his usual routine, John hastily put the groceries away, made himself a cup of tea, and sat by the fire to think. Reminders of Sherlock were everywhere. But of course, the fault was all John's. There were no body parts in the fridge anymore, which he had to admit provided some sort of relief. Then again, he missed that spontaneity of seeing a severed head or foot next to the milk in the morning.

"I'm just tormenting myself…" he muttered as he sipped his tea. The tea was another one of those things – he always made an extra cup, just in case Sherlock came bounding through that door, bloodied and out of breath. It was a small comfort, but he always thought it how unnatural it must seem to others, waiting on a ghost. Glancing away from the other still steaming cup on the counter, he stared at the mess of books and papers, the bright yellow smiley face on the wall opposite him. When Mycroft came by to collect Sherlock's things after the funeral, John had adamantly refused to let him take anything. The brief shouting match ended in a bloody nose for Mycroft and John apologizing all the way to the hospital, but it was safe to say they both left it at that. The possessions stayed, but John wondered when Sherlock's brother would return to claim the items he fought so hard to keep.

Night was falling as John passed the hours by the fire, watching the crap telly that Sherlock adored or reading a constant stream of new e-mails on his laptop until he felt exhausted enough to sleep dreamlessly. As the doctor finally decided to call it a night, he paused a moment to stare out the window. The moon, luminous and ominous as always, reached its full stage for the month, glowing brightly into the dark room. John imagined Sherlock standing in that exact spot, eyes closed and contorted in thought as he began to play. But the violin in the corner stood still, as it now always had. It was one of Sherlock's talents everybody admired, and was a world entirely at the detective's command. His music captivated all who heard it and made Sherlock, if even possible, just that more unique. While John always thought the music to be beautiful, he never attempted to play it himself. It was an assumed rule that neither Sherlock nor John ever spoke of. Yet, an urge to move towards the object came over him as he crept toward the stand. He picked the instrument up carefully, the dark wood heating up as he held it in his hands. He had held it only once before, when some rare solitude and a simple curiosity turned into something quite unexpected. He let out a small smile at the memory, staring out the window as the scene replayed in his head.

"_Sherlock was out chasing a jewel thief with a stone dagger and a copy of Harry Potter in hand, if I recall correctly,"_ John mused as he examined the instrument.

That day seemed so long ago. He had worked his way over to the window to watch Sherlock round the street corner with instructions to wait for him to do one of two things. Either for the detective to call John himself with a location, or when Lestrade arrived at his front door with an entire squad of officers, assuming they were following the false lead Sherlock planted to keep them out of his own pursuit of the suspect – whichever one came first. It was an uncommon feat for John to be in the flat alone - even Mrs. Hudson was out for the night. The flat was filled with an uncomfortable silence, which put John on edge, something that in general never happens. After pacing the room, waiting for someone to inevitably crash through the front door, he simply could not stand it. He was angry that he had to wait around while Sherlock did all the running – what was he doing? He should be right there with the insufferable git on the front lines! Finally fed up with the silence, John rushed over and picked up one of Sherlock's most valuable possessions – his violin. Tempting as it was to belt out random screeches and warbles, John knew better than that; Sherlock would notice smallest scratch and certainly a few broken strings if he wasn't careful. Positioning the instrument very carefully under his chin, he held the bow in hand and felt a pressing form of – what, exactly? Guilt? Apprehension? Shaking it off, he held the bow inches above the strings, mimicking Sherlock's movements. But, then what? Randomly positioning his fingers, he let the bow glide over the strings. Expecting a poor imitation of a note to greet his ears, John was surprised to hear a clear, high note resonate from the instrument.

He tried it again, letting his hand guide the bow more slowly. The note took on a haunting glow as he moved his fingers again. After a few more tries, he had learned where the good notes were from the more sour ones, but still couldn't form the notes into any recognizable pattern. He was so absorbed in the movement of his body, the sounds of the music, and the vibrations humming from the strings. He finally understood why Sherlock played it to think. It was so…peaceful. A break from the endless madness wrapped up inside Sherlock's head. Drawing out slow, mournful notes, he didn't notice the sky growing darker and the shadow of a man quickly entering the room.

"John."

Watson started at the sound, his note screeching to a halt. He turned around to face Sherlock Holmes standing only a foot away, a cold look on his face.

"S-Sherlock. Listen, I didn't mean –" John stumbled and flushed, losing any kind of explanation as he stared into the other man's eyes. "Did I miss your call?" he managed to say before more words died upon his lips. Sherlock stepped closer, slowing outstretching his hand.

"No. I managed to corner the thief near Northumberland. Tall and athletic, but weak arches. Foolish for him to try to jump into the bushes. Eyesight was not good either, I'm afraid. Lestrade will handle it from here. And I'll have that, please."

John carefully held out the violin to his friend, anticipating some sort of backlash. Instead he was surprised as Sherlock headed directly for the window, rapidly played a string of melodies, tweaked the strings slightly, and faced John once again.

"Here. It was out of tune." He held out the violin to John, a questioning look defining his features. John silently stared back, wondering what could possibly motivate such a response.

"Sherlock, I can't play. It was just a few notes-"

"And very promising ones, I assure you. My, John what you lack in intelligence might make up in musical abilities. Are you sure you couldn't play clarinet back in primary school? Come now, I'll show you." Gripping his friend tightly by the hand, Sherlock placed the violin and John back at the window. John was baffled, but slightly pleased as he was given further instruction. "You need work on your posture. You tried copying me, but face it John, I've got a foot of height over you. Lean your elbow down slightly and arch your back." Immediately John did as instructed, a military man through and through.

"No, no, no. Too high. Here, just let me." Sherlock carefully adjusted John's arms, raising and lowering them slightly until the desired result was reached. John could feel his heart racing slightly as Sherlock hovered and fussed over his arms, tingling slightly as he placed his hand, if only for a moment, on his back. Sherlock stepped back and looked one last time, nodded, then dove into a pile of papers nearby.

"Don't move, John. I'll find something easy to start with."

John did as he was told, hoping his friend would not pull out some Mozart pieces with notes covering the page. He barely knew what he was doing as it was. _"It is nice," _he thought to himself _"that Sherlock is so interested. At least he didn't do anything irrational…"_

"Ah! Good, we'll start with this one." Pulling up the music stand, John could make the words out as the growing moonlight illuminated the page. He nearly turned around as Sherlock stood still in the background, but knew he could already sense the incredulous look now plastered on John's face.

"You're serious?_ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_? What are we, five?"

A grin started tugging at Sherlock's lips. "Of course, John. It's only natural for beginners. You know the notes, now just follow the music."

John sighed, staring intently at the notes on the page. The tune was easy enough, and he could identify the notes he had played previously with the melody on the page. As soon as the notes started to flow, Sherlock was there; his hands and arms mirroring the movements and positions as he hovered just inches above John's arms. Keeping John's arms steady, the doctor was impressed at how Sherlock predicted his moves, feeling the vibrations as if he were playing the piece himself. He glanced back quickly to Sherlock as he hovered on a note, shock and hints of delight becoming painfully obvious on his face. _"I can't believe I'm doing this. He must think I'm an idiot." _But to his surprise, Sherlock let out a small smile and clasped his hands over John's.

"Play for me, John. Just. Play."

Time froze, but only for that instant. He remembered the way Sherlock's hands felt. So… reassuring and warm; it was a comfort he had never taken the time to enjoy. The melody continued on for another few minutes as John returned his focus to the music. He turned away just in time to miss the ebbing of emotion developing on Sherlock's face. His pale cheekbones tinted slightly red, and his eyes were completely focused on the other man's movements as he guided John into the final bar. The tune came to an end as the last note died, and Sherlock released his hands, stepping away from his grinning counterpart. Sherlock spun around, taking the violin from John's trembling hands. After performing a few additional bars to sort out his head, he turned back to his flatmate.

"You did very well, John, for an amateur. This is too easy, next time we'll work on something from one of my favorite operas-"

"Oh, don't spoil the moment." The two looked at each other before falling into a brief fit of laughter. John recovered first. "Me? Play YOUR violin like that? I've put it to shame, so sorry…"

Sherlock cleared his throat and regained his composure, complete with a serious expression. "Oh, it's quite all right John. We'll probably never play that one again."

John countered the man's bored tone with sudden speculation. "Why? It's the solar system again, isn't it? You don't even have to KNOW about the planets to understand -" For a moment, he thought Sherlock's mood would take a turn for the worse as his friend's expression darkened. But then again, John knew Sherlock better than that.

"Oh, not THAT again!" Sherlock's expression melted as he darted into the kitchen, John following at his heels. The two broke out laughing again as they casually searched for a meal. "Mrs. Hudson should've known I would solve the case today. No groceries –"

"No, nothing but those spleens you've got in the freezer box."

"Thanks for reminding me. They do need to thaw slightly before I –"

"No. Stop. Don't want to hear it. I called Angelo's earlier; something should be on its way." Sherlock peeked his head out of the fridge, a condescending look lighting up in his eyes.

"So, you DID forget to do the shopping. First unnatural music abilities, now no groceries? This is unlike you, John…"

He gave John another long stare, giving him a look that made John's heart skip a beat. It was the kind of look he only gave him – what it meant, he had no clue. John sighed as Sherlock broke contact, moving swiftly past the doctor to the window. Picking up the violin once again, he paused to look out at the moonlight. Unknown to the smaller man, who how now sat down by the fire, an unusual feeling swelled in Sherlock's chest. Emotions were always so lost to him, but this was something… new. Glancing over as John took out a paper to read, Sherlock only had one thing in mind.

"_Let me play for you, John."_

And the music started to flow once again.

But as fondly as the memory arrived, it retracted too quickly, startling Watson as he snapped back to the present. His leg gave way slightly, nearly taking John and the violin down. But he knew he was stronger than that. Taking slow, deep breaths, he regained his stance to find that only a few minutes had passed. The early morning hours had arrived, but it really didn't matter. To John Watson, time always seemed to stand still. Picking up the bow, he stiffened his back as the violin settled comfortably onto his shoulder. "_Why do I torture myself like this?"_ He had not played since that night so long ago – why should he start now? He knew Sherlock was gone, but he didn't BELIEVE it. _"Is this what you want, Sherlock? I'm so tired of being sad, tired of not getting any sleep, tired of people staring. I'm tired of MISSING YOU, DAMMIT!"_ Holding back his emotion as always, he took another deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to play.

The notes came flowing back as if he played them yesterday. He started slow, the somber keys echoing throughout the flat, his sorrow building up as the notes grew louder. The tune started to form as that moment played over again in his mind.

_Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,_

_How I Wonder What You Are._

He could almost feel Sherlock's hands guiding him, taking a firm grip as the two played as one; mentor and student, the warmth of that peculiar companionship taking hold. To be known, to finally be on the same page…

_Up Above the World So High,_

_Like A Diamond In The Sky,_

This was it. The moment of truth. He plunged into the final bar, ready to stand on his own and forget. Forget the man who made his life complete, a half that was now so empty, so utterly alone. He couldn't do it. The sound died with a screech as John fell to the ground, remembering those torturous words. Silent tears slid down his face as he hastily worked his way back on his feet. The words had rung so clear in his head, like he was standing right beside him. It was too painful, he could never forget…

"Play for me, John."

He froze. This was not a voice in his head, but it couldn't be him. Turning around, he saw none other than Sherlock Holmes in the flat doorway, head high and completely 100% _not dead_.

"S-Sherlock…" He felt the bow slip out of his hand as the detective made his way toward the window. Pulling him up completely off the floor, John felt a reassuring squeeze on his arm as the violin was snatched out of his hands. John spun around to see Sherlock take his place at the window. The shock was in full effect now, but he couldn't help being mesmerized by Sherlock's sudden actions.

"If you won't finish it, John, I suppose I have to." Grinning slightly and taking advantage of John's surprise, he picked up the bow off the ground to play once again.

"Let me play for you, John."

And as if he never left, Sherlock finished with the flair of a master, the melody complex with hints of familiarity and pleasure never heard from the musician before.

_Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,_

_How I Wonder What You Are._

The song ended, the note trailing off into the night. The violin was quickly returned to its corner as Sherlock moved over to his friend, concerning slightly altering his face.

"John, are you all right? I was –" Sherlock didn't have time to finish his inquiry as John tackled him to the ground. Struggling to elude John's powerful grip, the detective did manage to stand up as John started to shout.

"I. THOUGHT. YOU. DIED. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING! DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE BEEN THROUGH? ONE YEAR LATER, AND YOUR FIT AS CAN BE!"

"Please, John. I know you're angry, but you'll wake the whole street if you keep carrying on…"

"ANGRY? DO YOU -" But John stopped suddenly and stared into those eyes, which were now slightly bored but laden with concern. Sherlock began to speak once more, but John simply held up his hand. "No." Stepping closer to the detective, he held out his hand.

"For a genius, I thought you'd figured it out by now. You're alive. How could I possibly be angry? You've come back." His hand still extended, Watson relished the confusion on his friend's face as they shook. But Sherlock always had something up his sleeve. Much to his counterpart's surprise, he pulled John into a hug. It was all-consuming and very personal, something he thought Sherlock would never do. It brought back a form of comfort that the two so desperately missed. The comfort of just being near each other, standing as equals for the very first time. The two stood there for another moment, then broke apart.

"You look like a ghost, John. From the insomnia, I suppose. Would you rather talk now or sleep off the shock? I'm sure Lestrade left a blanket here for those sort of things."

"No, Sherlock. Just pick up that violin and play. God knows your head must be as bad as mine." John turned to settle near the fire, watching Sherlock intently. He could feel normalcy ripping through his veins like adrenaline; he was starting to feel like himself again. John Watson was finally back, his other half quickly throwing off his coat and grabbing his instrument.

"Yes, only logical choice. Let me play for you, John."

And the music now played from 221B Baker Street once more.

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><p><strong>Thanks so much for reading, and please review if you can! <strong>


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